I'm Not A Trophy!
by Deno
Summary: Max gets fed up with his mom, and he has a shiny object in his hands... rated for dark themes and goryishness hehe!


I am writing this because I am completely POed! Don't ask for more or for me to put up and epilogue or anything! This is a one time thing to clear my emotions. I chose Max 'cause his personality is most like mine (only, obviously, I have a temper), and he also has an ignorant parent (only his problem is son/mother and mine is daughter/father). I never liked Mr. Tate, she's so mean to Max! Grrr! 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9…10! Breathe! Ok, I'm better… barely.

Disclaimer: You are all lucky I don't own beyblade, my temper might leak into it…

Warning: Gory-ish, maybe? Dark themes and hatred. A guns involved… you get the picture. I don't think it's too bad, though…

**I'm Not A Trophy!**

**By:** Deno

I can't take it! You ignore me, you complement everyone but me!

Yet the second I do something amazing, you brag to everyone how I'm you're 'awesome' son and how _you_ raised me that way!

Then, after the praise of my work stops flowing to you, I'm forgotten in the blink of an eye!

I can't take it! I can't stand it!

Did you give me life to just to _abandon_ me?

Do you _despise_ me?

Am I that _horrible_ of a child to be called yours?

Do you _hate_ me?

No, I know you don't.

I'm your tool to get praise. Without me, you have to impress people on your own.

How?

I want to know how?

How can you live with yourself?

How can you be that cold?

How can you not care about your only son?

How can you look me in the eye, lie, and say "I love you" and not mean a word of it?

Don't even say you do! I know when you're lying! It's obvious! Your eyes betray you, even if you look sincere.

Nothing comforts me. Nothing except the cool, metal object in my hand.

Oh no, it's not a knife. I don't cut myself. You're not worth it. I learned that long ago.

But the power this cold steel object gives me? Yeah, I like it. It makes me feel strong, confident.

Trust me, my happy and energetic personality is _not_ a mask. But when I'm around you, I become… heartless. I feel myself boil when you're around, so I have to leave the room to stop the tension (that you don't realize is there) from making itself known.

But tonight's the night. No longer will I have to be used for meaningless praise. Oh no, Mother, never again. NEVER!

I subconsciously run my pale fingers over the metal object again. It seems to be feeding me courage. I feel fearless because of it. It reassures me.

I stand up from the floor of my darkened room. The soft, silver glow of the moon from my window is the only light. I walk to the door of my bedroom. I feel as though I'm in a trance, my feet keep moving forward of their own accord.

I slip from my room to the silent hallway and make my way to my mom's door. I stop a foot away from it. My hand reaches out… 5..4…3…2...1 inch from the door handle. I let my fingers linger on the cool metal of the doorknob for a minute. It reminds me of the object in my other hand, and I twist the knob open, reassured by its comfort.

I stalk forward to the bed and look at my mother's sleeping form. She is sleeping on her back, head slightly tilted to the side, golden locks that match mine flowing over her pillows softly. It disgusts me how we share that trait.

Suddenly, I'm watching everything from a distance, and everything is in slow motion.

I see a young blonde boy of fifteen slowly rising a gun. He stares a few more moments at a sleeping figure, then pulls the trigger.

The bullet barely grazes the sleeping women's right shoulder. The women screams and automatically brings her hand to her wound. Blood is spilling. Fast.

The women then looks at her attacker, her son, with wide eyes full of shock. Tears spill down her cheeks. She can't take the pain, physically of mentally.

I see she turns her head away in shame. Shame at what her_ son _could do to his own mother. I glance at the boy to see his reaction. His face is blank, devoid of all emotion.

"Why, Maxie? Why?" the women asks her tormentor, or son.

The boy lifts the gun for a second time, staring the women right in the eye with all his hatred evident and says calmly, "Because, I'm not a trophy."

At that moment, the boy shot the women, his mother, in the head. He lowered the gun from his hand and walks to his still mother's side. He bends down and gently kisses her bloody cheek.

"Good-bye, Mother dear." He said in a mocking tone.

Suddenly I'm not watching the scene from afar anymore. I'm back in my body; gun in hand with the slight taste of iron on my lips.

For the time that night, I raised the gun. But this time, it was my own head.

---

Max sat up in bed panting, cold sweat clung to his heaving body. He quickly swung his feet over the side of his bed and opened the drawer to his nightstand. There sat a steel revolver, shining in all its cold and merciless glory.

"Not tonight, Mom, but soon."

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**Deno: **As I reread this now, I scare myself. Oh well! I'm back to happy-hyper-sugar-high-Max-mood! That was actually fun! I couldn't bring myself to actually do it. HA! Even if it insinuates him doing it later. As I said earlier, only now I'm saying it nicely, not out of rage, this is all there is. Please, please don't ask for more. I might not keep this up either. Tell me what you think. If I get crap reviews, it's comin' down. Later all!


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